Chapter X: England and France United

Who could describe the pleasure felt by the Frenchmen as they gazed once more on the shores of their own dear country after so long an absence! Even Villemet lost his lugubrious looks, while his friend, brimming over with joy, seemed almost ready to leap into the sea to get there. He sprung about the deck, sang snatches of songs, laughed at every remark Villemet made even when there was nothing to laugh at, in fact, made himself somewhat ridiculous.

As soon as they landed, they instantly made arrangements to post straight away to their homes, which were not far apart from each other. Villemet's came first; and there, as they drove up, a perfect swarm of younger brothers and sisters came out to devour him; his old father and mother looking on behind with calmer but not less real delight. It was a pretty sight, and as Tournier drove away amid their joyful greetings, he could not help for the moment envying him, and contrasting the scene with that which was awaiting himself, with only one welcome--only one--but then that was the welcome of a mother!

He had to pass a well-known house; but as he drew near, he dashed down the blind, and turned away fiercely, till it was passed. "Dead!" he muttered.

The nearer he drew to his old home the more familiar were the objects that met his eye, till at last he spun through the gates, and up the drive, and almost leaping into the house, cried to the smiling servants, "Is she in her old room?"

And there he found her. She was pretty as ever, prettier than ever, as _he_ thought.

"Mother, I have come to take care of you at last," he said; "and _to_ the last, thank God."

"Thank God," she murmured in reply.

But though his mother seemed almost like her old self under the exhilaration of that happy meeting, Tournier could not but observe how feeble she was in every way. And when the first gush of joy was over, he saw it more plainly; and every day he noticed it increasingly. Where some stamina is left, a sudden stimulus may lead to permanent improvement, but when there is none, excitement only revives for the moment, and leaves the patient weaker than ever. So was it with the dear old lady. Those years of lonely sorrow, aggravated by uncertainty and bitter disappointment, had killed her; and Tournier had only come in time to make the last few months of her life her happiest ones for many a day past.

One evening, as the end was drawing near, she suddenly said, "My son, what will you do when I am gone?"

"Sweet mother," was his reply, "I shall trust in God to help me bear my sorrow patiently. I know He will."

"Why not marry a wife? It is God's own remedy for man's loneliness."

"Where shall I find one? I know no woman that I could trust _now_." Then, after a pause, he added, "And yet there is one I could trust. Yes, those blue eyes could be trusted. I would spurn the man who dared to say they could not."

Then he told his mother all about Alice; and she listened with deepest interest, and a little flush came over her delicate pale face. But it became pale as before when he said, "Ah! mother mine, Alice Cosin is not for me, nor for anyone: she is bound for life to her good brother, and I would not break that lovely bond even if I could."

In the autumn of 1815 she died, her eyes fixed to the last on her son. And when they closed for ever, it seemed to him that love unutterable was extinguished. But he took refuge in his God.

It was hard work, however, to keep on living in the old place where everything reminded him so much of the past, both of joy and pain. He would have asked his friend, Villemet, to take compassion on his loneliness, and come and stay with him awhile; but the irrepressible fellow had gone off to the wars some time ago, and joined the army of Napoleon, distinguishing himself greatly at Waterloo. Again and again had Tournier's thoughts reverted to Alice Cosin, but each time he had repelled the pleasing idea as an impossibility. "How could I," he repeated, as the fair vision floated away, "for my selfish ends spoil the happiness of a friend like him?"

Fortified by this resolution, he determined at length to find consolation in fulfilling his promise of a visit to England. There was no reason why he should not enjoy the immense pleasure of seeing his friend again, and of course his sister. It would do him all the good in the world.

So he started with gladness to visit once more the land to which he had been unwillingly conveyed as a prisoner some seven years before. The old welcome was renewed with yet greater heartiness, and Tournier felt for the first time at home since his mother's death. Only, at their first greeting, he thought it proper to shew a little sort of restraint in addressing Alice, and he could not but notice that this assumed restraint made her beaming face look rather grave.

{The House of the Commandant. New the residence of J. A. Herbert, Esq., J.P. From photo. by Rev. E. H. Brown: p168.jpg}

One of the first things Tournier said he must see was the barracks.

"They have just finished pulling them all down," said Cosin. "Every building except Major Kelly's house, and the officers' quarters has been removed and the material sold by auction. However, you would like to see the old spot. I am sorry I cannot go with you to-morrow, but Alice can shew you the way if you have forgotten it!"

So they rode there the next morning.

"It seems like a dream," said Tournier, as he gazed for a long while upon the site where, as he too well knew, so many hearts had ached for years. "Who is going to live in the house of Major Kelly?"

"He has bought it for himself, but he is not there now."

"How I should have liked to see him. He was a fine officer and an excellent man. And now, Miss Cosin, will you mind going with me to another spot more interesting to me than even this, I mean the prisoners' burial ground, where my body would now have been laid but for your dear brother and you?"

That last word would have made Alice willing to go anywhere, and she cheerfully consented to pay the rather doleful visit.

When they reached the portion of the field where the interments had taken place, they let their horses nibble the grass, and silently surveyed the scanty mounds.

Tournier was lost in thought, and Alice watched him.

"Poor fellows, poor fellows," he said at length: "how many of them I have known! Some of them were in my squadron. Nearly all young, or in the prime of life--all dead before their time, worn out or broken-hearted."

"How many, do you think, are buried here?" asked Alice.

"Roughly speaking, I should say at least three or four hundred."

"Will not the Government mark the spot, or at least raise some memorial to these brave men?"

"I should think so," replied Tournier; "or if the English Government failed to do so, ours will not forget them. And yet, the shameful butchery of Marshal Ney does not favour the idea. They may look on them, as they did him, as soldiers of Napoleon, not of France."

Then they slowly wended their way homeward, Tournier turning round on his saddle to take a last look at the place that interested him so deeply, and again exclaiming, "There should I be lying now, in a dishonoured grave, but for God's great mercy."

That night, poor Alice could not sleep, but watered her pillow with tears.

"He does not care for me a bit," she said; "he is just the same as he used to be, only stiffer in his manner. But what does it matter? I could never leave my darling brother; and what is more, I never will. But he is so nice, nicer than ever." And the tears came again, with a wee bit of vexation in them, and kept on at intervals, till kindly sleep at length fell on those dear blue eyes, and dried them up.

And while this was going on, her brother and his friend were smoking and talking together below.

"You must find it very wearysome, Tournier, to live by yourself now. You are not the man to like that sort of thing. You are too unselfish to be a confirmed bachelor. Excuse me for touching on a painful subject, I use the privilege of a friend."

"I thank you for doing so. But the fact is, and _you_ cannot be surprised at it, I have lost all faith in a woman's constancy. No doubt there are many of my countrywomen who would make me a happy man, but I don't know them, and do not mean to search them out."

Cosin was silent.

What good angel put it into Tournier's mind to come out with it? but he _did_ burst forth, after a pause, with the imprudent assertion, "The only woman in the world I know in whom anybody might place entire reliance is your sister. Sure am I that the blue sky of Heaven does not more truly reflect the love of God than her blue eyes reflect constancy and truth!"

Tournier felt he had betrayed himself, and was vexed.

As to Cosin, he opened his eyes with amazement at the other's vehemence of manner. Then a bright smile of surprise lighted up his face, and he said, "Why on earth then do you not ask her to be your wife?"

"My dear fellow," replied Tournier, in his turn amazed, "you surely know why. Did you not tell me years ago that she would always be your companion through life? and do you think I could be such a base scoundrel as to breathe one single syllable to her that might tempt her for even a moment to think of leaving you?"

Cosin seemed really angry instead of pleased at this, and said severely, "And so _you_ thought _me_ such a selfish brute, that I would rather keep her sweet companionship to myself, and be her gaoler more than her brother, than give her a free woman's choice to marry anyone that was worthy of her, and on whom (lucky dog!) she had set her dear heart? I do not thank you for the compliment."

Tournier looked on his irritated friend with admiring surprise. It was like the harsh grating of a heavy door that had hitherto barred his way to happiness, but was now opening.

"The thing is," said Cosin in a milder tone, "does Alice like _you_?"

"I cannot say. She never did anything to make me suppose it. But I was not observant, for I did not think about it."

"And yet, silly fellow that I am," said Cosin, "I now remember how her face always lighted up when she heard about you, or we talked of your coming. What a blind bat I have been! Oh, how I hope she does like you. I am sure she must. But you must find it out, and if she has any scruples left, tell her to come to me and I will satisfy her."

And Tournier, nothing loth, did find it out next day. The interview shall not be described, for such things are sometimes related with admirable taste and effect, but much more often are made ridiculous; and as this was pre-eminently sensible, natural and real, it shall not run the risk of being spoilt by any attempt of the kind. It must be sufficient to say that the interview was perfectly successful, only Alice persisted in saying that, although she entirely and joyfully believed what Tournier told her about her brother, yet she must speak to him herself, and hear from his own lips that he gave a willing consent. And Tournier only admired her the more for it.

Away, therefore, she went with radiant face to seek her brother; nor did it take long to get his consent. As she came into the room he forestalled her object, and folding her to his breast said, "Dear Alice, I know what you are going to say. Your face tells the tale. You have fulfilled, more than fulfilled, your loving duty to me. Do one thing more to make me happy--go and make that dear good _fellow_ happy all the rest of his days. And remember," he added, as he held her a little from him, and looked into her blushing face with pretended severity, "you shall never come under my roof again if you disobey me! Come, I will give you to him myself."

And they found Tournier awaiting the verdict without the slightest degree of suspense.

"I have brought you your wife," Cosin cried.

What followed may well be imagined by all but ill-natured people, who see no chance of their ever being placed in a similar predicament themselves.

In the course of the evening, Cosin suddenly said with great gravity, amounting almost to solemnity, and looking first at Tournier, and then at Alice: "There is a matter that still remains to be settled. You have run away, Tournier, with my wife, and it is only fit and right that you should make what compensation is in your power."

Both the others were taken rather aback, especially as Cosin continued to seem very much in earnest.

"There must be a marriage-settlement of some sort."

"Assuredly," Tournier replied, relieved, but still somewhat puzzled.

"Whatever you think right, I shall be delighted to do."

"Do you really mean that?" said Cosin, still very seriously.

"Indeed I do. Everything I possess I would joyfully give to my sweet love," looking at her with intense affection. "She is worth more than all I have beside."

"But I want more than money and lands," persisted Cosin. "Mind, you have agreed to do whatever I may propose."

"Yes. Anything you require. I trust you as my own soul."

"Then the marriage-settlement must be this: That so long as we all three live, you two shall come and spend a good part of the summer with me every year, and that you will let me spend a good part of every winter with you in your sunny home. Provided always--here comes the lawyer--that if we do at any time wish to turn summer into winter, or winter into summer, we may do so by mutual agreement."

"Could anything be better!" cried the others in great delight. "Agreed, agreed."

Then Cosin, no longer able to look grave, laughingly exclaimed, "Signed, sealed, and delivered."

A few weeks after, Captain Tournier went over to France to prepare his house for the reception of his bride. He did not stop long, but returned with a heart full of gratitude to God, and joyful expectation of a happy future.

They were married in Yaxley Church in the presence of a crowded congregation. More than half the people who attended could see nothing because of the bullock-boxes: but they were there, and their hearts too. And when the grand old bells pealed forth a joyous welcome, the bridegroom could hardly repress a tear (only one!) for they reminded him how often the merry sound that now so truly harmonized with his over-brimming joy, had seemed of old to mock his misery as he listened to them from within his prison walls.

* * * * *

Their happy union, to compare small things with great, may be taken as an emblem of the _entente cordiale_ that ought ever to subsist between the two countries of France and England, and which can only be jeopardized by that rabid journalism which, with slight occasion, or none at all, seems always to take delight in doing its utmost to "let loose the dogs of war."

One word more.

The two stone bosses which for many years have capped the piers of the west gateway of Yaxley Churchyard, formerly occupied the same position on the piers of the principal entrance to the Norman Cross Barracks. And when the poor prisoners of old passed between them, they were entering the place of captivity and grief and hopelessness. But now, as the good Yaxley people pass between the same bosses to go into their noble House of Prayer, they may rejoice in the thought that they are entering the place where liberty and peace and everlasting hope await them as the gift of God, through Jesus Christ their Saviour.

THE END.

Footnotes:

{17} See account of the battle of Vimiero in Napier's History of the Peninsular War, Book II, Chapter V.

{44} This is fact, not fiction. It would be interesting to know the history of this good man after the prisoners were discharged in 1814. One thing is certain, that he must ever have enjoyed a feast of memory to his dying day in having been a shepherd and bishop of souls to these poor prisoners.

{133} It is much to be regretted that the ravenous curiosity of a former vicar has since made this very hole. A wooden box was found with a heart inside in perfect form, but which instantly crumbled to dust when exposed to the air. The dust was returned to the cavity, and the box is kept at the Vicarage; but an aromatic odour still impregnates the box, just as the church William of Yaxley built still preserves the holy use to which it was devoted.